


The Art of Cohabitation

by Dragonsploosh



Category: Original Work
Genre: Demon, Drama, F/M, Romance, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-19
Updated: 2018-03-19
Packaged: 2019-04-04 17:08:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,569
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14024808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dragonsploosh/pseuds/Dragonsploosh
Summary: A demon is cursed to spend eternity confined within a house. Two hundred years later, and he really really hates the place - that is, until someone new moves in.





	The Art of Cohabitation

I’ve been stuck in this stupid house for over two centuries. You wouldn’t believe how boring it’s been - unable to terrorise anyone whatsoever outside of these four walls. The occupants have been unbearably dull too: there was the stuck up family who all played musical instruments (until I broke them), the young couple who argued all the time (which I encouraged), and that mother and her teenage son who needed therapy after repeatedly seeing things (me).

It might sound like fun, and I suppose it was for a little while, but that’s all.  Nobody ever stays for long after realising they’ve been sharing their house with a demon. I find it quite unfair - I was here first, after all. Still, they try and tell _me_ to get out (like I wouldn’t love to), and then when it doesn’t work they just leave, no goodbye, no attempt at conversation, nothing. It’s repetitive. It’s predictable . And even worse than that - it’s lonely.

After so many years of the same old shit, I hardly even care when a van pulls up on the street outside. The house has been empty a while ( _empty_ \- like it could ever be truly empty), and I peer out of the window, through the overgrown bushes, to see a woman hop down from the driver’s seat. She leans over and hefts out a huge box, carrying it in teetering steps towards the metal gate and almost toppling over as she struggles to open the rusty latch. I give her six months. Tops.

I hide upstairs when she starts to move in her things. I can hear her humming as she drags in box after box, disturbing all the wonderful dust that’s built up in the brief (ish) absence of humans. It’s been so quiet here, I’m not sure how to feel about all this noise; every so often she sings a few words to whatever song she’s trying to replicate and then goes right back to humming again, like some sort of madwoman.

Oh, hell - I realise that there’ll probably be more of them coming to squawk about the place. She looks young, but still old enough to have a mate and probably a few spawn. I await them with utmost displeasure, burrowing myself into the furthest, darkest corner of the house and ruminating on how I’m supposed to 'share’ or 'play nice’ or whatever.

*

Day steadily turns into night, and I can still hear her banging around, though nobody else has arrived. Eventually my curiosity gets the better of me and I quietly creep from my hiding place and make my way onto the landing, where the staircase leads down into the entrance hall. It looks like she’s cleaned it already; the marble floor shines horribly, and the lovely cobwebs have been brushed away to reveal the ugly aged wallpaper. I suppose these humans might call it 'vintage,’ but to me it looks disgusting. I want to bury it back inside the dust and gloom and forget it ever existed.

She’s stopped singing. Why has she stopped singing? I'd only just gotten used to the new noises, and I admit that it wasn’t all that…. displeasing. I listen out for her, and hear her footsteps. She rounds the corner from the kitchen with a large steaming mug in her hands and takes a sip, leaning against the doorframe and gazing out at the large space, the staircase - at me.

She can’t see me, of course. I wouldn’t let that happen so soon into our relationship. Still, it sends a shock through me as our eyes meet, and I don’t really know why. I’ve never been taken in by human beauty, but this one does look interesting - wild, red curls all tied up in a scarf, pale skin peeking out from a loose black jumper. It hangs off one shoulder, showing me the edge of a tattoo that disappears underneath the fabric. I find myself staring at it, watching the lines move as she brings the mug to her lips, and it’s only when she sets the cup down and gets back to work that I realise she’s started singing again.

***

The next day, she rips down the wallpaper. I’ve had to look at that disgusting beige pattern for so long I feel something inside of me lift when she starts to paint the room purple. She hums while she does it, casually dancing to her own tune, and I sit at the top of the stairs and watch. At one point she drops a big globule of paint right onto the floor and grumbles out “ _fuck_ ” but does nothing at all to clean it up.

I actually might like her.

***

Everything in my life seems to change after that. Where once there was dust and cobwebs, now there is colour. Her name is Zoe - I overhear her on the phone, the dim voice of another woman filtering through the other end. Zoe sleeps in the living room for the first few nights, on a patchwork sofa that seems so out of place underneath the grand Victorian ceiling. Even while she sleeps, everything seems to come to life around her; she’s left food outside for the birds, and although though no creatures have dared to approach this house in a long time, I can sense them out there now, nesting in the hedges.

She snores. Not the dainty snores of a delicate lady, but great grunting snorts that threaten to wake her up. Her mouth hangs open, her hair even wilder than ever, tangling around her face. I find myself feeling oddly peaceful as I settle myself in the armchair opposite.

When she does choose a bedroom, heaving a mattress out of the van and dragging it up the stairs, I help. The stairs are curved, difficult to navigate, and she doesn’t notice when I quietly lift the opposite side, bearing most of the weight and making it easy. She even looks proud of herself when she sets it down in the furthest bedroom on the left; the room that I’ve always used as my hideaway. People don’t normally like this room; it’s the gloomiest room in the house, overshadowed by the branches of an old oak tree that snake out and shroud most of the window. There’s a wide windowsill there at waist-height that’s big enough for a person to sit on, and she sits on it now, closing her eyes and listening to the wind whistling past the glass.

When she’s finished decorating, the room looks completely different. It’s still gloomy, but cosy - the walls are a light grey, the bed is scattered with cushions, and the set of drawers in the corner seems to hold more books than clothes. There’s an easel taking up most of the free space, and the small bedside table soon becomes cluttered with pencils and charcoals and chalks, all messily staining the wooden surface.

She paints a lot. I realise that this is her job - whole rooms are soon filled with canvases, and she stays home most of the day, humming to herself and making a mess of her hands as she turns something blank into something beautiful. She pulls her bottom lip between her teeth sometimes and steps back to look at her work, her head tilting. Then she’ll lunge forward excitedly with her brush and attack whatever imperfection she’s found in quick, precise strokes, her lips pink from where she’s bitten them.

She paints the oak tree outside the window. It looks dark and mysterious, twisted branches housing the eyes of unseen animals. She paints the birds that sit in the new birdhouse, and their feathers look shiny and soft in the sunlight. She paints the house, and it doesn’t look like a prison any more.

***

After weeks of watching her, I realise that she doesn’t always stop to eat or drink while she’s working. Hours go by and still she continues, a flush high on her cheeks as she spreads black paint onto a palette and daubs it onto the canvas. I want her to stop, to feed her tiny human body, but she doesn’t. When it grows dark outside she only flicks on the light, smearing the light switch with murky finger prints.

Surely this isn’t healthy. She’s already so small, her belly flat as a pancake. Not that I’ve looked - I always turn away when she’s getting changed, though I can’t exactly be blamed for catching glimpses. Like whenever she reaches up high for something, or when she’s wearing that small t-shirt, the one that stops just above her navel….. I digress. She needs to eat.

I leave the room and make my way down the stairs, hearing them creak behind me. When I reach the kitchen, I allow myself to become corporeal so that I can fill the kettle and set it to boil. I rifle through the cupboards, finding a packet of pasta - not very nutritious, but I’m not exactly a chef. I follow the instructions and make the food, putting it all into a bowl and creeping back upstairs, turning invisible again as I set the food outside the door.

She doesn’t notice. Even with the 'clink’ of the bowl on the hardwood floor, she just carries on painting. At one point she steps back and nibbles on her lip as usual, but then just gets straight back to it.

I try and wait a little longer, but it’s annoying. I’ve never made anything for anyone before, and now I’m getting ignored. What do I have to do to get her attention? The food will get cold - either that or she’ll starve to death.

My irritation makes me stupid, and I fall back into old habits - in hindsight I could have knocked, could have made the lights flicker, the door creak, but no. I go right on in and slap the palette out of her hand.

It clatters to the ground in slow motion, paint splattering onto the rug beneath our feet, and I immediately realise what I’ve done. I back away quickly, grateful that she can’t see me, but I know that it's all over. I’ve ruined things. She’ll leave now.

“Oh my god,” she breathes, a crease between her eyebrows. I hate that crease. “Fuck. Fuck.”

I wait for her to run. She stares down at the fallen palette, her long eyelashes lowered, green eyes taking in the mess, and then she rubs at the bridge of her nose and sighs.

“Urgh, this is going to take forever to clean up.”

Zoe straightens up and heads for the door, her footsteps even. She isn’t running. Yet. Maybe she’s trying to rationalise it, humans do that sometimes, but then her toes bump into the bowl of pasta.

I’m such an idiot. Why do I have to go and be weird. What exactly did I expect?! For her to find some random food by her door and think _'oh, this is perfectly normal, no demons living in my house at all_.’ Wonderful.

“You didn’t bring me a fork,” she says quietly.

What?

She picks up the bowl and dips in a forefinger, licking off the sauce thoughtfully. “Hmmm, it’s not bad - maybe I’ll let you off this time. But don’t ever hit my things again.”

She walks off with the bowl, and I stare after her, stunned. Did she just speak to me? Bewildered, I obediently move to start picking up the art palette, wondering how the hell I can get all the paint out of the rug. I set it on the table and hope I haven’t ruined her work - she’s spent so long on this picture, longer than any of the others.

I turn to look at it properly for the first time and the sight makes me freeze, a sharp, numbing stab of _something_ travel right through my chest.

This painting is beautiful. It’s not quite finished yet, but it’s obviously been made with meticulous care; the lines are skilled, precise strokes of black, white and grey capturing everything with perfect depth and clarity.

That isn’t what gives me pause, though. It isn’t her talent or creativity that makes me reach out to brush my fingertips against the canvas. No, the thing that really makes my emotionless body thump to life, my fingers tingling on the still-wet paint, is the realisation that this beautiful picture is of _me_.

***

I keep my distance after that. At least, to a certain extent - I bring her food, and make her tea when she hasn’t been drinking enough. There’s a space in the attic where I’ve hidden things away, and I fetch her some books that I think she’ll enjoy and place them on her bed. She thanks me, a great beaming smile on her face, and sits in the window seat, reading in the lamplight. When she’s finished she talks out loud about her favourite parts. I find out that she’s clever and insightful, interesting and funny, and that I like the sound of her voice.

I don’t speak back. I know that I sound rough and coarse, and I never want to see the disgust on her face.

***

“Hey, remind me that I have a meeting next week,” she says casually one day as she’s painting. I’m sat in the doorway, watching as usual. I’ve never actually shown myself to her, so I have no idea know how she’s managed to paint me so often - there are four canvases of me now. “Some people are interested in buying my work. It’s actually a pretty big deal - they’re from this fancy gallery in America, and if I’m successful my stuff will get put on display there.”

She says it in this off-hand manner, but I can sense that she’s nervous. I leave the doorway some time later to make her some soup, and while I’m in the kitchen I pin a note to the fridge in my messy handwriting: _'Remember_ _meeting next week. Good luck._ ’

The note is gone the next day. I hadn’t written anything in over a hundred years, so I expect she couldn’t even read it. I don’t know why I feel so crestfallen about that. I try writing another - and then another and another, but all of them seem to disappear when I’m not looking. Perhaps writing is not my forte.

She gets quieter as the days go on, until she announces one evening: “I’ll be going out in the morning. Hopefully I’ll be back before lunch, but I don’t know.”

I nod my head, though she can’t see.

“If they take my paintings, then this could mean…. urgh, I can’t even say it. I might not get a chance like this again.”

My stomach knots for her. I’ve watched her stand in front of that easel day after day, painting picture after immaculate picture. I don’t think I could bear it if she gets rejected - the idea of it makes me feel heavy, and it only gets worse when I imagine her disappointed face. I want her to be happy.

Time seems to speed up. I sit outside her door as she sleeps, listening to her snore, and suddenly it’s morning and she’s dressing in a smart black suit that I didn’t even know she owned. Her curls are tamed into a tight bun and she has a folder tucked under her arm, a purse slung on her shoulder.

“All right, wish me luck,” she says in a slightly wobbly voice, and I _want_ to. I really do.

Instead I reach out and brush my fingers over her hand, just a soft touch. She feels warm. I half expect her to flinch and recoil, but instead she looks right at me and smiles.

“Thanks.” Her voice sounds just a little stronger.

I impatiently wait by the door for her to return, staring at the elaborately carved wood. Where time had sped up before, it slows down now, and every minute is agonising. Lunchtime comes and goes. The phone rings twice, but she isn’t here to answer it.

Finally the door rattles, and I jump up expectantly. I feel excited, apprehensive - I want to know everything, and I know that she’ll tell me. She always tells me.

But it isn’t her.

Two men come into the entrance hall, and one of them is holding a key. The other is holding Zoe’s purse.

“Try the second floor,” one of the mutters, and they nod and split up.

What is happening? This is our house, why are they here - why do they have Zoe’s purse?

I follow the second man up the stairs - he looks to be in his forties, a bristly beard on his face. He doesn’t look friendly. He carelessly pushes open doors as he goes, looking around for a moment and then backing away, right until he gets to the room that Zoe keeps her finished paintings in.

“Hey, Steve - Steven, they’re here,” he calls out, and the other man comes thundering up the stairs.

“Shhhh,” he says stupidly, tossing Zoe’s purse to the ground. He claps his hands and rubs them together, looking around. “All right, help me get these to the van.”

I’ve had enough of watching - I grab the door and fling it hard, slamming it shut so loudly that the men practically jump out of their skins.

“Who’s there?” Shouts the one called Steve, his voice sounding hoarse.

When I say nothing, he hesitantly reaches out and re-opens the door, peering out into the hallway with narrowed eyes. He eventually turns to shrug at his friend, and that’s when I slam it again, even harder.

“All right, who the fuck is there!” They bellow, scurrying about like mice.

They are either really brave or really stupid, and they come barging out into the hallway. They even have the indignity to drag one of the canvases along with them.

They don't make it any further than the top of the stairs.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” I inform them, and I step out so they can see me.

I’m not pretty. Not like Zoe’s pictures. I’m huge and hulking, membranous wings folded behind me, horns curling from my head. I am every bit the image of nightmares, a horror story in the flesh.

Scary enough to make two grown men stop dead in their tracks.

“What the - fuck….”

“Oh, sh -”

They drop the painting when I start to prowl closer, and I wince when it crashes to the ground.

I can’t worry about that though.“Where is she?” I snarl. They took her purse. If they’ve hurt her then I’ll wrench their heads clean off.

“Wha - the girl?”

I grit my fangs together in fury.

“Yes, the _girl_ ” I spit back. “Tell me where she is.”

They stutter and I begin to unfold my wings in warning.

“She’s still at the office!” The smaller of the two replies. “They’re just keeping her there until we get the pictures. That’s all we want, just the pictures. Don’t hurt us - y-you know if we don’t contact them, they won’t let her go….”

“Are you _threatening_ her?” I ask, outraged, a deep growl vibrating in my throat.

“N-no, not threatening, we’re just saying…. hurt us, and you won’t see her again…”

I am blinded by fury. I was half intending to let them leave, but now I lunge for them. They don’t even have time to flinch before I’m grabbing them both by the front of their shirts and throwing them behind me with all my strength. I don’t bother to watch as they tumble down the stairs, though the sick 'crunch’ at the end says it all.

I go to find Zoe’s purse, which still lies on the floor in the canvas room. There has to be something in there that can help - maybe a number on her phone. The first thing I see when I look inside, however, are the notes; five of them, all with my own messy handwriting on - _'Good luck’_. I take a breath and set them aside, still rummaging for her phone, and I find more paper. There’s a letter with an address on it. The address where she went for the meeting. This must be it.

I spin around, not troubling myself with the stairs. I leap right over the banister instead and land with a 'thud’ in the entrance hall. I see the two shapes slumped on the ground, but then I’m outside and hurrying to the gate.

It’s starting get dark already. She’s been there for too long. I can’t think clearly in my desperation, and the pain catches me off guard when I reach for the gate.

It’s familiar. I should be used to it, but the agony is always so sharp whenever I try to leave the house. My whole body flares up with this relentless stabbing sensation, as if white-hot needles are prying me open, and I groan, releasing the gate.

I have been stuck in this house for over two centuries, but now is the first time I’ve actually been frantic in my attempts to leave. I brace myself and try again, whimpering at the onslaught of pain, though I continue anyway, pushing hard against it. I practically throw myself at the barrier, but I’m shaking now. I feel weak. I can’t do this.

I back away and pant for air, feeling wretched and useless. Zoe needs me. I can’t just stay here and let her get hurt. My wings whip out and I flex them as I think of her, of how she kept my notes. She must have been so sneaky to collect them without me noticing. I wonder why she did it. I’m unable to help it when my mind floods with images of her, paint smudged on her face, wild curls swaying as she bobs her head and bites her lip, examining her own work. I like it best when she’s looking at the pictures of me, because she always smiles then.

I back up all the way to the front door and take a deep breath, my mind swimming. I’m ready to try again.

This time I don’t reach for the gate with my hand. Instead, I run forward and bring both wings down hard, leaping up and feeling the air catch in my membranes. One more swipe and I’m level with the gate, the pressure building, my head feeling like it might explode. The invisible boundary crashes into me, and I feel myself shatter. Every bone in my body must be grinding in on itself. I should know better, I can’t leave this house.

And then I’m past it. Everything lifts, including me, and I’m still in one piece. For the first time in two hundred years I’m past the gate, soaring up into the sky, utterly free. I’m terrified for all of a moment, but then my head clears and I know what I have to do.

The paper is still clutched in my hand, and I study the address. I have an excellent sense of direction, though I haven’t used it in quite some time. I let it guide me now, my body becoming invisible to the eyes of onlookers. I am a demon, and tonight I’m out for blood.

The office buildings don’t take long to find. I fly fast, the muscles in my back feeling good as they're stretched properly again. I land by the door and notice only a few cars in the car park, the lights on in just one window on the second floor.

I head towards it, wrenching the front door right off its hinges. I storm through the hallway, and I can hear voices when I get close.

“Look, I said I’m not interested. Just let me go home, I’m done here.”

“But our representatives are merely doing a background check. It’s standard procedure with any purchase on this scale, I assure you.”

“Yeah, you said that. Four hours ago. I have somebody waiting at home, you know, and I told them I’d be back so if you could just -”

“At home? I thought you lived alone.”

“I never said that.”

There’s a pause, and there’s definite tension in the room. Good. There should be.

I’m completely visible when I smash down the door. Judging by the sound of her voice, Zoe is near the back wall and safe from my violent actions, which is more than I can say for the two men standing just the other side. Heavy wood come crashing down on them and they stumble under its weight, shouts of pain and confusion ringing out as I stomp over the carnage and face the other two strangers that block my path to Zoe.

“Whaaat?” Squawks one woman stupidly, blinking owlishly at me from behind thick glasses.

I’m about to rip her face right off when Zoe steps out from behind her.

“See, I told you I had someone waiting,” she says calmly. “He gets mad when I’m late.”

You could probably hear a pin drop in the silence as Zoe walks over to me. “I’ll be going now,” she calls over her shoulder. “Are you going to give me my bag back orrr….”

“It’s at home,” I growl out, and she looks confused for a moment before shrugging.

“All right.”

She reaches up and it’s natural how I lift her, how she fits against me. The other occupants of the room can only stare as I back towards the large windows, reaching to unlatch the one nearest and swing it open wide.

“If you ever go near her again, I’ll kill you,” I rumble, baring my teeth. A groan by the door tells me at least one of the crushed men is conscious, and I hope he heard my threat. They’re lucky I didn’t just snap them all like twigs.

I pull Zoe closer to me and turn, jumping from the window and extending my wings. We fall for a moment and she gasps into my chest, her small hands clutching at the back of my neck, and then we are airborne. I try to concentrate on keeping a steady rhythm as she holds on to me, her body warm and real and pressed against mine. She is safe. I won’t ever let anything happen to her.

I feel nothing when I get back to the house. No pressure, no pain - just the odd sentiment of willingly returning to a place that I’ve wanted to leave for so long. I land as gently as possible in front of the door and lower Zoe to the ground. It’s a little awkward when we separate, and I look away, my arms hanging uselessly by my sides.

“Did they hurt you?” I ask tentatively.

She doesn’t reply, but when I glance up she is shaking her head, shivering. She is also staring, and I realise what a horrible sight I must be. I instinctively make myself invisible again, feeling embarrassed.

“I can still see you, you know,” she tells me with a small shrug.

Those words are so unexpected that I take in a sharp breath, checking to make sure that I’ve hidden myself properly. I know that I have; I can feel the buzz that always comes with it. Still, her eyes follow me as I move around to stand on the door step, and I cock my head in confusion.

“I couldn’t at first,” she continues softly, wrapping her arms around herself. “Urgh, this is so stupid. I’m shaking.”

The situation is so surreal, I don’t know what to do. I push at the door behind me and it creaks open. Should I leave? Should I make her some tea? I don’t know.

“Hey.” She reaches out to me when I take a step away from her, into the house. Her eyes meet mine and she looks scared, just like I knew she would be, and my heart sinks.

“I’m sorry,” I mutter, feeling terrible, but she only stumbles after me.

“Wha - no, I… come here. Please.”

The next thing I know, she’s buried in my chest again, her arms wrapping around me, and I’m shaking almost as badly as she is.

“I didn’t want to scare you away,” she admits, her voice quiet. “You didn’t want me to see you and I -  I was waiting until you let me… I’ve wanted to do this for so long.”

_She_ didn’t want to scare _me_ away? It doesn’t seem possible, none of this does. All I can do is hold her carefully, as though she is fragile and precious, because she is.

“You knew what I looked like…”

It sinks in that she could see me this whole time.

“Of course - didn’t you see the pictures? How did you think I knew?”

Honestly, I had just thought it was her imagination. Still - those pictures were beautiful, and I am not.

“They don’t look like me.”

“Don’t insult me, they look exactly like you.”

“No they don’t.”

“You know they do.”

I smile, and a laugh works its way up in my chest.

“Fine.”

She shivers again. I suppose it really is cold out here. I pull her closer and back us away from the door so I can shut it, flicking on the light switch and shrouding us in a soft glow. She pulls away and looks up at my face, reaching to trace my features with delicate fingers, and I try to stay still.

“I never thanked you,” she murmurs, her eyelashes fluttering as she looks down and back up again. “I don’t know what happened today. I got there, and at first it was fine, we talked about normal stuff. They had to take my bag at the start. It seemed a bit weird, but other than that…. Oh, and then they said they needed to do credit checks, just in case something fell through, but they were willing to buy all my paintings, everything. I should have known something was wrong. I’m so stupid.”

I shake my head furiously.

“They wouldn’t let me leave. I don’t know why… I don’t even know who they were. I don’t think they were even from the gallery. Stupid.”

I shake my head again, reaching to touch her face as she continues stroking mine. My hand looks large and clumsy and it probably feels rough on her soft skin.

“You aren’t stupid,” I tell her, leaning in.

Our breath mingles together, her chin tilting up towards me. I’m hesitant and nervous, my throat feeling tight, my mind foggy. I loosen my grip on her face but she cups the back of my neck and pulls. I can see all of her eyelashes now, all the freckles on her nose. I tilt my head so that our foreheads don’t bump; I’ve never been this close to a human before. I breathe faster, she smells so good, and just when I feel like I’m about to burst she pulls away.

“Oh - fuck,” she gets out, looking over my shoulder with suddenly wide eyes.

I feel like something important just got snatched away from me, and it takes me a moment to follow her gaze. When I do, I wince at my own forgetfulness. The two men from earlier are still lead there, twisted up in unnatural angles.

“ _Oh my god.”_ Zoe staggers forward, brushing past me and reaching out. “Are they dead? _What happened?”_

I focus my senses, trying to ignore my own thundering heart as I try to detect any life force from the two bodies. What I find takes me by surprise, and I shake my head. “They’re alive.”

“We have to call the police.”

Perhaps we should have done that from the start. Zoe goes for the phone and dials the numbers, says the words. I hear our address and the click as she hangs up.

It’s even more surprising when she returns to my side. I felt sure she would be horrified at what I’d done, but she only reaches for my hand and looks up at me with trusting eyes.

“They’ll be here soon - tell me everything.”

***

Our story (or Zoe’s story, since I stayed invisible) went that the men had fallen down the stairs after trying to carry the paintings away. Apparently, they admitted to this and told the police everything after waking up in the hospital (they were oddly cooperative after I paid them a visit).

It emerged that a gallery in Florida really _had_ noticed Zoe’s pictures, and she’d received a genuine email from them expressing their interests. Beyond that, however, when their correspondence had switched to physical letters, the post had been intercepted and the wrong kind of people had seen what kind of money Zoe was being offered. The men that I’d thrown down the stairs worked for a larger company that scammed talented people out of their hard earned money. After today, they'd never get the opportunity to do that again.

“They still have to go to court, but it seems like they’ll be facing a sentence,” Zoe tells me, hanging up the phone. “They’ve stolen a lot of money over the years - I kind of wish I’d seen those guys faces when you came along.”

“They did look a little… surprised,” I admit, smiling when I hear her laugh.

The past two weeks had been slightly awkward. I felt self-conscious around Zoe, knowing that she could see me now, and I kept away from her bedroom, mostly lurking around the kitchen and insisting that she eat properly. We talked quite a lot, about anything and everything, though somehow I managed to completely avoid all the things that I actually wanted to say to her.

“I think surprised is an understatement,” she says with a grin. “Hey - how do I Iook?”

She does a little spin, her heels clacking on the marble floor, and I swallow. She looks incredible, dressed in a well-fitted shirt and long black skirt, every curve framed perfectly by the expensive attire.

“Good,” I growl.

“Oh, just good? Well thanks mister positive. You know I only get one chance at this. Or two, apparently.”

She’s smirking. I know that she’s joking, but I can’t help the fear that flows in my veins like ice. Her smile falters.

“Hey, don’t look like that, it’s going to be fine. What happened last time - that isn’t going to happen again. Besides, this time you’re coming with me, right?”

There was no way I was willing to let her go alone.

I remain unseen to the outside world, riding in the passenger’s seat as we approach a rather more upscale conference building than the last.

“Stay in here,” she tells me, and I shake my head stubbornly.

I choose to wait right outside the door to the interview room, listening intently as she meets with the two owners of the gallery. They’d come all the way from Florida after hearing about what had happened. She comes out some time later, beaming and saying “ _thank you_ ” a lot to an elderly man who shakes her hand as she leaves, and I manage not to growl at him through sheer force of will.

She only speaks to me when we’re back in the van.

“Did you hear that,” she yelps excitedly as soon as the doors shut. “That was… thousands - _thousands_ , oh my god.”

Her happiness is so infectious that we’re both laughing by the time we reach the house. She gets out and pulls me and race after her, spinning her around in the entrance hall. It’s the first time we’ve been this close since that night, and I can feel her heart pounding against my chest.

“You know, this is all because of you,” she gets out, and I can hear the smile in her voice.

“No,” I tell her, shaking my head.

“Yes - I wouldn’t even get to meet with them if you hadn’t saved me, and besides - they really liked the paintings of you. You’re my inspiration.”

I feel my face heat up and say ’ _no_ ’ again, but this time I’m chuckling and she’s wrapping her arms around my neck and I’m terrified and giddy, either from spinning or from _her_ , I don’t know, I don’t know anything because she’s pulling at me and our faces meet, and suddenly we aren’t laughing any more.

We’re kissing.

Her mouth feels warm and soft - so soft that I accidently let out a long breath through my nose and move closer, bumping against her. She doesn’t seem to mind, and her jaw drops slowly along with mine as we taste each other for the first time. Her hands are firm behind my head, holding me in place, and a shudder runs through my wings when I feel the first swipe of her tongue. It runs along my lower lip before pushing inside, and I meet it with my own.

“Mmmmmm.”

She moans, she actually _moans,_ and I swallow it up eagerly, feeling my confidence grow as our tongues slide alongside each other. I can hear us slurping messily, and my composure really starts to go when she delicately licks at one of my fangs.

I need to stop now or I don’t think I’ll ever be able to. I don’t want to move too fast, I don’t want to hurt her, but it’s so difficult when she pulls my lip into her mouth and nibbles on it, they way I’ve seen her do to her own so many times. This time the moan is from me, and it vibrates between us and echoes around the room.

She groans when I pull away. “Don’t stop,” she whispers.

“Have to,” I grunt. I have to keep myself under control.

“Oh.”

I look at her, and her face is red, her eyes on the ground.

“I have to stop because if we carry on, I don’t know if I can hold myself back,” I clarify, the longing so transparent in my voice that I grit my teeth in shame.

“….. _Oh_.”

The way she says it this time is different from the last, and when she presses against me I flinch.

“Don’t,” I growl.

“Fine,” she says, though her grin looks more evil than mine has ever been. “I’ll take it slow, okay? Don’t worry about me - I won’t break.”

I lean down and give her just a chaste kiss on the side of her mouth, unable to resist dragging my nose along to her temple and smelling her hair like I’ve wanted to all along.

“We have time. I’m not going anywhere,” I promise her. Even though I despise this former prison of mine, I’ll stay right by her side for as long as she wants me to.

A smile lights up her face. “Alright.”

We both move in at the same time, and I wrap my arms around her, holding her close. My wings unfold and I extend them, curving them all the way around to cocoon us in our own little world. We stay like this, breathing together, feeling each other.

“Hey, what shall we do with all the money?” She murmurs eventually, sounding sleepy and relaxed.

I think about it for a moment and smile, kissing the top of her head.

“Can we move house?” I ask, and she laughs before nodding against my chest.

“Sure.”


End file.
